i 






Class 1:!£^ 



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Book f A 5 3 'S S fe 
fapyiightN" ^ 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



SONGS AFTER WORK 



BY 

LOUIS J. MAGEE 



WITH A PREFATORY WORD BY 

ANDREW D. WHITE, LLD., D.C.L. (Oxon.) 



^ 



G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 

Zbe IRnicIsecbockec pcesa 
1907 



76 



\ Two Copies Received I 

DEC 4 190F 
OLftSS ct KXc.no. 

copy B. ^ ._ 






Copyright, 1907 



G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 



TOe 'Rnlcfterbocftet |>rc08, Hew K^otli 



INTRODUCTORY WORD 

OF all the acquaintances made during a recent 
stay of nearly, six years at Berlin, none in- 
terested me more than the author of the follow- 
ing poems. Young, of noble presence, witty, 
humorous, yet serious and thoughtful, he was a 
welcome companion at any hour, whether of 
work or leisure. 

As to his history, I gradually learned that, hav- 
ing taken his degree in Arts at an American uni- 
versity, he had been attracted into the workshops 
of one of the greater New England companies for 
the construction of electrical machinery; that the 
work and the scientific thought it involved had 
fascinated him ; that he had thrown himself fully 
into it, thus gaining the confidence of his em- 
ployers; that he was soon sent forth to super- 
intend the construction of important electrical 
plants in various parts of the United States and 



iv Introductory Word 

in South America, and that seven years after his 
graduation from college he had been made tech- 
nical director of one of the two great establish- 
ments for electrical construction in Berlin, thus 
becoming one of the pioneers of electrical railway 
work in Europe. 

In the vast establishment under his care he 
showed great organizing and directing ability; 
but there was far more than this, for he thought 
deeply and ingeniously upon the underlying 
scientific problems. From time to time he pre- 
sented the results of his thought to audiences at 
the German capital, and always with a clearness 
and beauty which fascinated them; so marked 
was his success in these expositions that he was 
chosen as one of the lecturers on recent elec- 
trical inventions before the present German 
Emperor. 

With such tastes and temper, he accepted new 
burdens willingly, serving as a director in various 
affiliated companies, as a consulting engineer, and 
as a contributor of many valuable papers, some 
scientific, some popular, to the technical press at 
home and abroad. 



Introductory Word v 

But there was another phase of his activity 
even more attractive. He loved poetry, music, 
art, in all its grov^ths. At his beautiful home, 
upon the Thiergarten, his friends enjoyed him at 
his best, but never more than when he could be 
persuaded to offer his thoughts in verse. We 
found them subtle, ingenious, opening beautiful 
vistas into the higher world in which his soul 
rested, and we loved him all the more for them. 

It is at the desire of those who enjoyed his 
views of life thus expressed, that the one nearest 
and dearest to him has made a selection for the 
present volume. It is a wreath placed on his 
grave by her who loved him best. Too late for 
effective help, it was discovered that his passion 
for work had undermined his health. Long 
voyages followed; his colleagues appreciated his 
value and he was given ample vacations in var- 
ious sunny lands. But all in vain. He died in 
July of the present year, at the age of forty-five. 

Andrew D. White. 

Cornell University, October 9, 1907. 



CON 1 h 
Inscription . 


.Nib 






PAGE 

VII 


To V . . 








3 


In Town 








4 


Old Lovers . 








7 


Interpretation 








8 


To MY Camera 








II 


ZuM Jahreswechsel 








13 


To OUR Chaperon 








• 15 


A Spoiled Man 








. 18 


Song at Morning . 








20 


Chez le Cordonnier 








21 


February, 1896 








22 


Antiquities . 








. 25 



vu 



Vlll 



Contents 



A Family Favorite 

February, 1897 

Acrostic 

To Mr. & Mrs. R. P. 

To Mrs. C. W. 

The Lower Rhine 

Prayer 

Hidden Life 

In Memoriam 

In the Heat of the Day 

February, 1898 

To Mrs. C s. . 

My Book 

The Telegraph Boy 

To Miss L. 

The Dynamo's Song 

At Stratford 



Contents 






ix 


PAGE 


ToC. A. C .58 


At the Embassy . 






59 


To Mrs. M. B. W. . 






63 


ToV 






64 


To Mrs. J. B. J. . 






65 


Christmas on the Riviera 






66 


A Wayside Cross . 






68 


Hymn .... 






69 


Ideals .... 






71 


The Last Word . 






• 72 


Ballade of the Ship 






• 74 


Oberland 






. 76 


After-thoughts . 






• 78 


September 8th 






• 79 


Reiselust ... 






. 80 


A Few Lines 






. 83 


To Mrs. L. A. T. . 






. 84 



X 



Contents 



At The Florist's 
To Elizabeth 
To Miss R. G. 
To H. M. B. . 
To Mrs. von U. 
On Pincian Hill 
To OUR Virginia 
Alma Mater . 
Ultima Thule 
Sympathy 
Our Jacko . 
A Fragment . 
To Addie 
My Neighbor 
To Mother . 
ToV. . 
The Crusade 



Cont( 


^nts 






XI 


PAGE 


In Castle Land ii6 


The Abandoned Farm , 








ii8 


Outre Mer . 








120 


Campus Song 








. 122 


''My German Bonnie'' 








. 124 


Inventory . 








126 


Septuagenary 








129 


At Beechwood 








132 


Ex Libris of F. a. V. 








133 


ToJ.A. S. . 








134 


Our Chirurgus 








135 


ToV . . 








. 136 



New mouldes are planned before the cast is colde; 
The printed page scarce drye, the booke is olde; 
Inventions yesterday ; routine to-day ! 
Art lives, — all else must change and pass away. 
But lore of heartes and Love's philosophie, 
Tho* writ of olde, is new, and e'er will be. 



xiii 



Songs after Work 



TO V 

LITTLE wife, 
If you find 
Something in between these lines,— 
Something about love and life, 
Better far, a thousand times. 
Than the rhymes, 

Sweeter, stronger, and more true, — 
That 's for you. 



IN TOWN 

(Berlin) 

WE dwellers on the city street 
Too little see, too little praise, 
How Nature yields herself to meet 
Man's modern ways. 

Not far from crowds and rows of shops 
We Ve still a world that 's fresh and new, 

And still above the chimney tops 
Our sky is blue. 

Oh, sweet! that green things find a place 

Amidst this stern civility; 
That beauty even here can grace 

Utility! 



In Town 5 

That thrushes care to sing and nest 

Here, where this patch of woodland lies 

Close to the city's heart to rest 
Our tired eyes! 

What matter if our river flows 
More slowly than a river should ? 

Canals would hasten more, one knows, 
If they but could. 

These boats that peasant mothers guide 
Past lofty house-fronts, towers, and domes. 

To us, o'er-strained, o'er-cityfied. 
Are country homes. 

Hard on the highway's noise and dust 
I know a path where still remain 

Wild things enough to make it just 
A country lane. 

Each sunset over bridge and wall 
Relieves a care, bestows a charm. 

The same as where the shadows fall 
On field and farm. 



Songs after Work 

For hearts must fear and hope and wait, 
Be they behind a lock or latch, — 

Whether beneath the tile and slate 
Or roof of thatch. 



OLD LOVERS 

IS not the contrast fortunate ? 
Without, the night so desolate; 
Within, this cheerful UU-a'tete, 
Here by the fire. 

For years we Ve sat together here, 
And you are better every year; 
You bring the smile, you dry the tear, 
And you inspire. 

A glowing heart, a taste refined, 
My solacer, I daily find 
Of all that's soothing, sweet, and kind, 
A type in you. 

For colors that your dark cheeks wear. 
For grace of form, who can compare ? 
Ah, no! there's none that's half so fair, 
My Pipe, as you. 



INTERPRETATION 

"Tongues in trees, looks in the running brooks, sermons in 
stonesj*^ 

WHAT we hear in the voice of the stream 
and the sea; 
What we learn from the stars, what the meaning 

can be 
Of the notes that we get from their song in the 

sky; 
If the wind in the wood is a laugh or a sigh, — 
Depends on the kind of heart we bring 
To catch what they all have to say and sing. 
We change, and they 've something different 

to say, — 
Something sad in the past, something glad for 

to-day; 
And, proud if she find but a listening ear. 
Nature tells us the thing we are willing to hear. 

8 



Interpretation 9 

You remember the thicket behind the old mill 
In the park, — ^just a bit that's original still 
In the midst of the statues and fountains and all, 
'Midst the art and precision that only recall 
Things one tries to forget, city sights, city noise ? 
Well! there in that tangle there's always a voice. 
Yes, trees that must grow in a civilized way — 
Planes, maples, and elms — all have plenty to say 
When I listen to them; but the bushes know 

best 
If I 'm needing encouragement, counsel, or rest. 

As I heard them once in the splendor of June, 
They said: ''Old friend, 3^ou are out of tune. 
You trying to sing! If you understood 
The poetry of this tiny wood; 
If you with your world-dimmed eyes could see 
The life and the love and the harmony 
That hide in our shade the whole day long, 
Then perhaps you also could make such a song." 
(And a blackbird sang in the flood of June; 
He mocked me for being out of tune). 



lo Songs after Work 

In the face of an autumn wind to-day 

I showed a little woman the way 

To my bushes again; and they laughed and 

shook 
Their yellow leaves, and shouted: ''Look! 
There is the man who was out of tune; 
He always came here alone in June ; 
But now he has learnt, and now he knows 
What keeps us glad when November blows/' 

Some others who walked in the forest there 
Shivered perhaps in the chilly air. 
They said the wind moaned in the pines over- 
head. 
And thought that our laughing leaves were dead. 
So buds that are green and leaves that are sere 
Keep telling us what we are waiting to hear. 



TO MY CAMERA 

YOU truthful, cynical old box, 
You Ve nobly stood your share of knocks. 
I know a dozen fellows 
Who 'd turn a brilliant envy-green 
To see some things that you have seen 
Within your dear old bellows. 

No doubt youVe winked your glassy eye 
At my mistakes, and wondered why 
I made such startling mixtures, — 

A house, for instance, on a chair; 

A vision posing in mid-air: 
One film for two sweet pictures. 

You furnished me the words, the guise, 
To interest two hazel eyes 

XI 



12 Songs after Work 

With work you did in Cairo. 
That led to many a warm debate 
On which is better for a plate, — 

Eikonogen or Pyro. 

You doubtless had a quiet laugh 
When two went out to photograph, 
And never once unstrapped you; 

Or stood you up against a tree, 

Amidst the rarest scenery. 
And never once uncapped you. 

At last you thought me mad, I 'm sure, 
To specialize in portraiture! 



As science goes, you did your part; 
But Love has done what you could not: 
And clear defined, without a spot, 

A picture grew within my heart. 



ZUM JAHRESWECHSEL 

(New Year's Eve) 

SUCH length of years had to run 
Till this last golden one 
Brought me you! 
Dearest, come 
Close to me, 
So I '11 know it is true^ 
Not a dream, 
Prove that you, 
Love, are here. 

Cheeks and lips, lids and eyes, 
Making me my paradise! 
Loved by you, dear. 
No one in the universe can 
Happier be. 
Bring us, New Year, 
Nothing worse than 
13 



14 Songs after Work 

This and this is. 
Thanked with kisses 
Let him go; 
Good old year 
Who brought me youl 
Good old year, 
Let him go; 
Greet the new 
So and So 
Dear. 



M 



TO OUR CHAPERON 

(Mrs. K ) 

Y Flora, at whose feet are laid 



All offerings of song, has made 

Just one exception; 
And given me her leave to send 
A song of thanks to you, dear friend, 

And deep affection. 

What tedious walks you had to take 
For Madame Grundy's selfish sake! 

How good you were 
To listen to Joe's rather dry 
Discourse on Grecian art, while I 

Could talk to her! 

I understand and thank you for 
Your quiet sympathy; I saw 
How you pretended 
15 



1 6 Songs after Work 

To deafness and to failing sight 
When things were said or done not quite 
For you intended. 



Ah! would all mamas, friends, and aunts 
Might give to urgent youth the chance 

You gave to me! 
Then more of us might win and wed! 
The flowery path that lovers tread 

Perhaps would be 

With fewer obstacles beset 

If some would not so oft forget, 

At two-score-ten, 
Romantic days, they had (I trust). 
And kindly chaperons they must 

Have needed then. 

If, when I paid my court to Flo, 
I courted your approval so, 
And played for you 



To Our Chaperon 17 

The model son's devoted part, 
I hope, in winning Flora's heart, 
I won yours too. 

We 've just agreed to dedicate 
A dainty cup, a Meissen plate, 

To you alone. 
When we 've our little house some day, 
And Flo for other girls can play 

The chaperon. 



A SPOILED MAN 

ROSE has left me alone in this library corner, 
With the last magazine, and orders to 
smoke; 
But I can't relish even the latest of Warner, 
Or laugh at a joke. 

I, who once waited for weeks without seeing 

Rose, who is near me now day after day, 
Find myself all out of tune at her being 
An hour away. 

This story, she 's sure to ask if I Ve read it; 

Vd much rather not, but I promised I would; 
Very likely the hero 's perfection, she said it 
Would do me good. 

Read of devotion now when I am giving it 
All to the Rose who shall be my wife ? 

i8 



A Spoiled Man 19 

Read of love when one is having it, living it 
In one's life ? 

Hark! That's her v^altz that somebody's 
humming 
Dov^n the long hallway; ah, surely, I hear 
Her footstep, the swing of her gown ? she is 
coming, — 

Is here ! 



Before I tell you, dear, how I have missed you, 

I '11 finish this verse — find a rhyme for me: 
Well, just to have done with, we'll end it in 
*' kissed you"; 

Now for the tea! 



SONG AT MORNING 

STARS that trembled on the stream 
Have lost their light; 
Moon that made the golden dream 
Is dead and white. 

All the world that silence kept 

For her dear sake, 
All that waited while she slept, 

Is now awake. 

Along the wood, along the vale, 

The sunlight falls; 
And where we heard the nightingale 

The cuckoo calls. 



20 



CHEZ LE CORDONNIER 

TINY shoe, 
Very few 
Have so fair a fate as you. 
All the loveliness you '11 hold 
Rarely stands on heel and sole. 
Empty shoe, 
Cold and new. 
There 's a lot awaiting you 
Very few 
Ever knew, 
Little shoe. 



21 



FEBRUARY, 1896 

WELL, what's your verdict, little wife? 
A year has flown since real life 
Begun. 
You think the sacrifice has paid ? 
You don't regret the Parson made 
Us one ? 

Do I think anybody could 
Be half so fond as I, and good 

To you ? 
If wives were all like you, dear, then 
As wives are just what make the men, — 

I do. 

If man or wife most feel love's chain ; 
If in the Love-knot hers the gain 
Or his ? 

22 



February, 1896 23 

I Ve proved it all; and my reply 
If married life 's worth living, why — 
It is. 



The happiest tide that ever ran 
Must ebb^ and smiling fortune can 

Reverse. 
''For better or for worse " we said, 
And such a love can hardly dread 

The ''worse/' 



Time alters much, but still I know 
If, close together, we can grow 
" So old, 
That in the waiting pages here 
I e'en can write the fiftieth year 
In gold. 

Though lines may halt, rhymes weary me. 
My inspiration 's sure to be 
The same; 



24 Songs after Work 

And in my antique verse I '11 say 
You look as fair as on the day 
You came. 

Though wrinkles line the cheeks I love, 
And blessed v^hiteness shines above 

Your brow, 
You '11 have the self-same tiny feet. 
Your hands will be as small and sweet. 

As now. 



ANTIQUITIES 

i'^/^LD DANZIC is my proper name, 
V-^ And Danzig work is all the rage; 

^'Wine-cupboard" is the rank I claim; 
Of oak, well-carved, and ''black with age/' 

With ''age" ? — that is, the wood was old 
Before they hewed my body out ; 

Oak trees attain great age, I 'm told, 
That 's what the dealer meant, no doubt. 

I never had a home, you see, 
Till mistress found and loved me so. 

And seeing mistress, you'll agree 
That could n*t be so long ago. 

Back in the dustiest, darkest room 

She spied me hid behind a door, 

" Unearthed," she said, as if the gloom 

Had buried me an age or more. 
25 



26 Songs after Work 

Standing beside the Empire clock, 

One visitor I overheard 
Making his comments on the stock : 

'' Empire ? perhaps, Empire the third ! ' 

Most of my neighbors, so ihey said, 
Were Sheraton and Chippendale ; 

One gets strange notions in one's head 
When one is waiting '' up on sale/' 

However ill the dealer fared. 

He sent me here to warmth and light: 
For sudden fortune unprepared, 

My panels burst from sheer delight. 

Cracked with the noise of a pistol shot, 

The gem of mediaeval art 
I should have been and now was not — 

Wounded my mistress's genuine heart. 

The tankards tittered on the shelf, 
The platters winked upon the wall, 

I blushed and felt my faulty self 
The one ungenuine thing of all. 



Antiquities 2 7 

Ah well ! ''the times '' are my excuse, 

Supply will balance with demand, 
And confidence must meet abuse, 

The trusting will not understand. 

Times change and with them tastes must change, 

Off to the garret 1 '11 be packed, 
Replaced by something stiff and strange, 

Modern in name as well as fact. 

When, many a dusty decade passed. 

My style in the cycle reappears, 
And fashion's love revives at last 

For all that boasts the charm of years; 

When I 'm as old as I now should be; 

How proudly 'gainst the wall 1 '11 stand 
And hear them talk of my century 

When furniture was carved by hand. 

Time-mellowed, I '11 defy ''the Trade '': 
Who then can see, with keenest eye, 

That I was " old " when I was made, 
"Antique " before the glue v^as dry. 



A FAMILY FAVORITE 

HERE lies a cat of local fame 
Whose work (or, rather, play) is done; 
His stature great ; age six; his name, 
'' George Washington/' 

He died not like that cat of Gray, 

Drowned in a tub; his death was drier: 
He perished in a modern way. 
Caught on a wire. 

We miss thee, dear old household pet; 
But yet no doubt thy little soul, 
Thy tiny star, has only set 

Beyond our narrower human ken, 
To rise as part of Nature's whole 
Elsewhere again: 
28 



A Family Favorite 29 

To lead anew 'midst trees or flowers, 
Here on the land or in the sea, 
Thy little life to sweeten ours ; 

To Nature's laws still dutiful. 
Changed into something sure to be 

All pure and beautiful. 



FEBRUARY, 1897 

AGAIN a February sun 
Warms the chill streets, melts the soiled 
snow. 
The winter's course is nearly run: 
All 's bright above, if dark below. 

And frail things fearful of the cold, 

Long housed, creep out to brave the air: 

The very young and very old 
Are sunning in the Square. 

Straw-bundled shrub and matted vine. 

Like men in furs, seem overclad. 
The hyacinths in windows pine 

For soggy earth and gardens glad. 

The beams that used to hug the wall 
Steal down and strike across the floor; 
30 



February, 1897 31 

On rug and curtain, into all, 
Forgotten colors come once more. 

From perch to perch our Hensel flies ; 

He knows the days are growing long, 
And confident of spring he tries 

Fresh melodies, new tricks of song. 

This means two years have sped away 

Since all the best of life began. 
T was first on such a sunny day 

I called you ''Fran,'' you called me ''Mann.'' 

Once more in memory I stand 

Before the pastor, listening 
To sacred words, and in my hand 

I feel again the tiny ring. 

No church, nor choir, nor organ sound, 
And few the friends to see us wed ; 

But if we stood on foreign ground 
The ''Stars and Stripes" were overhead. 



32 Songs after Work 

And then the roses pink and red, 

Sweet bridesmaids from across the sea I 

They gave me of their own, they said, 
This homeland flower they gave to me. 



ACROSTIC 

MAKING the home, still doing the mother's 
part; 
Older only in years, but young at heart; 
Thankful, in all that comes, to take her share; 
Holding to every interest, every care. 
E'en in the Autumn days as in her prime; 
Reaping the fruits of love at harvest time. 



33 



TO MR. AND MRS. R. P. 

APOSTLE of the *' open door" in lands 
Where our own liberty shall take strange 
types, 
Upbuild and fashion them with patient hands 
And teach them how to love the Stars and 
Stripes. 

You need not seek Manila's distant bay, 
Nor Cuba's coral reefs and depths of blue. 

Whatever be your mission, where you stray 
All doors fly open, duty free to you. 

Among your countrymen across the sea 
You '11 ever find on these old storied shores 

Hearts open, welcome warm, the threshold free, 
And *' open doors." 



34 



TO MRS. C. W. 

(Written in a Guest Book) 

COME, guests! and sign upon this page ; 
We 're here in Prussia, be precise. 
" Religion/' of course, and age, 
'' Familien Stand/' birthplace and '' Kreis/' 
'' Vene:{^, Mesdames! " take up the pen ! 
Come on, you sombre-coated men, 
Drop creme-de-menthe and cigarette, 
Subscribe your name with steady pen, 
Lest '' Madame Bountifur' forget 
To have us at her board again. 

When such a hostess summons you 
Where Savarin in spirit dines, 
T were right to add a rhyme or two, 
Some dainty, quaint old-fashioned lines 
Suggesting Watteau ; just a touch 
35 



36 Songs after Work 

Of pompadours and old brocades, 
Time-softened picturings of such 
Whose charm and beauty never fades. 
Old France ! we '11 borrow grace from thee 
And name the hostess our Marquise, 
Meaning the fine Nobility 
Of that far land across the seas. 
Whose people know nor king nor lord, 
Whose women are its strength at home, 
Its pride abroad. 



THE LOWER RHINE 

ABOVE, in the castle-land, 
Are the fruits and forests and vines; 
But here tall chimneys stand 
Like clumps of desolate pines. 

Here, from the end of night 

Till weariness drives them to bed, 

Men live by the firelight, 
With iron roofs overhead 

With never a v^ord or sound 

Save the scuff of their wooden shoes. 
They work in a ceaseless round, 

With little to will or choose. 

Each man is a link in a chain 
That drags in a certain groove; 

37 



38 Songs after Work 

Each man is a gear in a train 
Of wheels that must ever move. 

T is mostly dark with smoke, 
The patch of sky they see; 

Their lives are under the yoke 
Of a mighty industry. 

Beside the roller's crash 
Is the silent might of man; 

Along with the forge's flash 
They 're fashioning what you plan: 

The blast, the molten flow, 

The crucible of steel, 
The ingot's cherry glow, 

The finished rail and wheel 

Away in the distant blue 
Is the old romance and the wine; 

Down here in a world that 's new 
Are the knights of the modern Rhine. 



PRAYER 

SPIRIT of Truth whose Godliness 
The world at worship, confident, pro- 
claims. 
Honest before Thee I confess 
To silence M^here they sound Thy many 
names. 

With them I cannot follow out 

Beyond this complex life Thy higher way; 
So human am I, that I doubt 

If there is more than living day by day. 

Tradition's forms seem dead to me; 

The wisdom of the pulpit and the book; 
Alive, the Creed of Sympathy! 

Gospel of smiles, the ethics of a look! 

39 



40 Songs after Work 

Only Life's litanies I hear, 

The duties of Thy sacred rites I shirk. 
When Faith should solace pain, I fear 

My doctrine is forgetfulness in work. 

Earthly! but Thou hast made me so ; 

My atom being, and the Hills, are Thine. 
Lord of the Truth, forgive, and show 

Where human Will may share in the Divine! 



HIDDEN LIFE 

SLEEP on field and forest; 
Winter 's everywhere, 
Binding up the river, 
Freezing in the air. 
Storming through the tree-tops, 

Drifting on the plain: 
Is Nature dead ? Will Summer 
Never come again ? 

Life in bush and burrow, 

Out of sight to man ; 
Root and fur and feather, 

How they dream and plan. 
Colors that they '11 bloom in. 

All the songs they '11 sing, 
When the sunlight touches them, 

In Spring! 

41 



IN MEMORIAM 

DUST-LADEN, languid flowers droop and 
fade; 
The parched landscape trembles in the heat; 
But hark! a fluting thrush far in the shade 
Sends rest and coolness from his dark retreat. 

A tuneful life sings softly through its days, 
And to a restless world its peace imparts; 

Soothes fevered brows to sleep, and thirst allays, 
And brings sweet sympathy to broken hearts. 

There is a sadness in the chilly air; 

Dark branches stand against a leaden sky; 
A lonely bird takes flight for climes more fair; 

And in the wood a leaf falls silently. 

Beside the bed an anxious watcher stands; 
A yellow sunbeam steals in from the west; 
42 



In Memoriam 43 

A weary soul flies forth for brighter lands; 
A ripened life falls gently to its rest. 

Their pride and glory gone, earth's leafy dead, 
Snow-buried, sleep 'neath winter fields of 
white, 

Save where a withered aster lifts its head 
To tell of warmer sun and days more bright. 

A sense of loneliness, a sweet regret. 
And then forgetfulness deep drifting on; 

But still some heart that never can forget 
Brings back the sunlight of a life that shone. 



IN THE HEAT OF THE DAY 

An Extract 

WE may not fail in zeal, nor effort shirk, 
Nor lessen our devotion to the cause 
Or calling. Only keep the chosen work 

In bounds; be not consumed; reserve a pause 
Amidst the busiest days for other books 

Than those which crowd upon your office 
shelves. 
Reserve within the heart a room that looks 
Upon the mountains, not the street ! Your- 
selves 
Sometimes lock ye within. Rest comes with 
change 
Of action: and new work, we know, imparts 
Fresh vigor to the man — a wider range 
Of vision rests the eye. Keep gentle arts 

44 



In the Heat of the Day 45 

About you! So shall come the shaded spot 

Along the march, the oasis amidst the sand, 
The dark cathedral open on a hot 

Highway, into whose depths we pass and 
stand 
Awhile, silent before the wondrous Child 

And grave Madonna. This shall be a wood 
For us, whose ancient trees and thickets wild 

Before the modern axe till now have stood 
Exempted. Such cool shades! such towering 
pines 

Against the pure blue ! And all so close 
To the great city's geometric lines 

Of house-walled, paven streets, with planted 
rows 
Of lindens. Pausing for a moment there 

Beyond the hurry of high noon, the hush 
Of nature soothes; we breathe the balsamed air; 

The rumble of the dusty thoroughfare 
Sounds far away. Among the tangled vines 

We hear the rustle of the startled thrush. 



FEBRUARY, 1898 

OUT of the home across the sea 
Four years ago you came to me, 
And pledged to share my exile life 
In this old world, dear little wife. 
A homesick heart we '11 never fear 
While Love lives with us over here. 
So long as you are here to share, 
A darker land would still be fair, 
'* The desert were a paradise. 
If thou wert there." 



46 



TO MRS. C— S 

(IVith a book of the author* s verse J 

GO book, go songs, and with your rhymes 
I send 
Warm greetings to a charitable friend. 
If there be music in you, if your art 
Can startle just a smile or touch a heart 
She '11 find your value out, she '11 understand. 

Her ear is nice, this daughter of the land 
Of Chopin's birth of Michiewicz's pride, 
Where Vincent Pol and Romanowski died. 
And if she finds you dull, your time too slow, 
She '11 like you for the author's sake, I know. 



47 



MY BOOK 

IT 's ''out of print '' they say 
'' All sold '' (or given away) 
My slender book 's asleep 
Where Pope and Chaucer keep 
The vigils of the shelves. 
My book 's content to be 
In such great company, 
Content, unread, to rest 
Beside of all the best. 



48 



H 



THE TELEGRAPH BOY 

EAR the clatter of those feet; 
See him coming up the street 
On the trot! 



He is going to the Greens'; 
No, he 's going to the Dean's, 

Is he not ? 

See the uniform of blue, 
And the shiny letters, too, 

On his cap. 

I imagine he is quite 
An intelligent and bright 

Little chap. 

What a careless tune he hums, 
And how innocently comes 

Hurrying. 

49 



50 Songs after Work 

Ah, how little does he know 
Of the happiness or woe 

He can bring! 

Now he brings a hopeless sigh; 
Now a sparkle to the eye; 

Now a tear. 

More of griefs, I think, than joys- 
Why! the fateful little boy's 

Coming here! 

Goodness, how he pulls the bell! 
He has some bad news to tell, 
I 'm afraid. 

Oh, I hope it 's not for me ! 
Alice, sign for it, and see 

If it's paid. 

It is surely not from Will, 
For his morning smoke is still 
In the air. 



The Telegraph Boy 51 

Has poor uncle breathed his last ? 
Has his weary spirit passed 

From all care ? 

Then poor auntie is bereft, 
And that sunny home is left 

Fatherless. 

Or old Cousin Ed and May 
'Ve gone and had another ba — 
By, I guess. 

What if John has lost, poor man. 
Little Clementine or Nan, 

Or his wife! 

Oh the hopefulness, the fears! 
Oh the rapture ! oh the tears! 

Of this life! 

I don't like the thing a bit; 
1 don't dare to open it; 

How I shake! 



52 Songs after Work 

Why, it 's from that man of mine: 
'* Will bring partner home to dme; 
Get a steak/' 



TO MISS L. 

ROSE-LADEN linen and the flavors fine 
To suit a Grimod de la Reyniere; 
Bright eyes, rare flashing gems, and beaded 

wine; 
Fair forms in dainty gowns, and laces rare. 
With such enchantments who could but demand 
High table-talk, distinctions hard to understand. 
The trend of modern art, or nothing worse, — 
My neighbor quoted me, alas the pain, 
My book of verse ! 



53 



THE DYNAMO'S SONG 

HEAR me, and I 'II sing to you 
Music never listened to; 
For you must be helped to hear. 
Customs prejudice the ear, 
And the great world does n't know 
That a painted dynamo 
Has a voice that surely means 
Just as much as those machines 
Poets tell of in the books, — 
Mill-wheels turned by mountain brooks. 
Saw-mills where the torrent roars. 
Spinning wheels in cottage doors. 
In the city's heat and toil, 
Here amidst the smoke and oil. 
Where the steady fires burn. 
And the crank-shafts turn and turn, 
Where the dash-pots clank and clash, 
And the switches snap and flash, 

54 



The Dynamo's Song 55 

If you only feel and see, 
Here is also poetry. 
Swing and thrust and rise and fall, 
There 's a harmony in all; 
Every piece its place and time. 
Working out the perfect rhyme. 
Brushes on the copper ring, 
High and clear the note they sing, 
Playing something new and strange 
On the theme of endless change. 
Telling how the wire wheel, 
Moving in its frame of steel, 
Helps transform the latent might 
Of coal-beds into life and light. 
He who built me, coil and pole. 
Knows me to the very soul, — 
Spools and windings, shaft and core. 
What each part is fashioned for. 
I 'm a servant to his hand; 
But he does n't understand 
What the wires take from me, 
What the fire-flow can be. 



56 Songs after Work 

Flooding through the buried mains, 
Pulsing in the metal veins, 
Goes my subtle silent stream. 
And I follow in a dream 
Into distant thoroughfares, 
Into cellars, up the stairs, 
Drive the loom and sew the dress. 
Cut the paper, move the press, 
Brighten up the printed page. 
Light the chancel and the stage. 
Brushes on the copper ring 
Gently glide and softly sing; 
I must never show a sign 
Of the mighty task that 's mine. 
Dynamos that rasp and spark 
Leave the city in the dark; 
Wrapped around my iron drum, 
Quietly I croon and hum. 



AT STRATFORD 

GREAT master of our mother-tongue 
Who sounded all the depths a heart can 
know ! 
Now as we wander here among 

The homely scenes thou lovedst long ago, 
We think not on the pomp of kings, 

The passion or caprice to which man yields; 
Thou art for us the one who sings 

The pride of June, the glory of the fields. 
Great poet of the grave and gay ! 
This Avon flowed for thee; thou knew'st 
these birds;' 
The very flowers we name to-day 
Inherit memories of thine own words. 



57 



TO C. A. C. 

TO one who leads the tumult of the mart, 
And knows withal the quiet walks of Art ; 
In whom the crowding cares still yield a place 
To simple nature^s gentleness and grace, 
To pleasure in a tree, a flower, a vine, 
A homely Whittier song, a tender line 
Of Robert Burns, and ''Breakfast Table" wit, 
A Romney portrait, or a dainty bit 
Of Flemish landscape; all the while 't would seem 
The Art of *' Rice ''and ''Thomson'' reigned 
supreme. 



58 



AT THE EMBASSY 

WELL, vision from the distant West, 
What brought you hither ? What 's your 
quest ? 
Just come ? What ship ? What sent you ? 
Come here to study or to rest ? 
Unless you've altered your career 
T is chiefly for the rest, I fear, 
Come on, and I '11 present you 
To some of your compatriots here. 

On many such 2ijour de fete 
We gather here to celebrate 
The common ties that bind us. 
The glories of our land and state, 
For wanderers like you and me 
It 's good to have a cup of tea 
With people w^ho remind us 
Of all v^e love beyond the sea. 

59 



6o Songs after Work 

This titled lady here we claim ; 
She 's foreign only in her name. 
That beauty there in purple 
Is keeping up her nation's fame: 
She makes the Europeans stare. 
Our countrywomen get their share 
Of praise in the court circle. 
Now you must meet our SecrStaire. 

When (as in every other trade) 
Experience and tact are made 
A diplomat's conditions, 
His labors here will be repaid. 
That dash of chiffon, chic and grace, 
That dream of loveliness and lace. 
Are recent acquisitions; 
The taller has a Gibson face. 

And here 's the man we rally 'round, 
The exiles' help on alien ground. 
Poor man, our churchless Pastor. 
These travellers love the gospel sound, 



At the Embassy 6i 

But leave more nickel here than gold. 

The building fund grows some, we 're told, 

The colony grows faster. 

So many sheep should have a fold. 

The Consul does look distingue. 
Ah! there 's the Naval Attache, 
And those are his two sisters. 
The graybeard with them, by the way, 
Been here a score of years or so; 
Has seen the envoys come and go 
When they were still Ministres, 
A sort of permanence, you know. 

If new-world qualities do spoil 

By contact with this foreign soil, 

It is a satisfaction 

That (as for governmental toil) 

Our rulers show much skill and sense. 

Trust them that foreign residence 

Shall not have time for action 

On diplomatic eminence! 



62 Songs after Work 

I wish I wore a uniform ! 

The officers just seem to swarm 

Around that pretty heiress. 

They say she took the court by storm. 

She 's just from home, refreshing sight. 

And, if I judge the fashions right, 

She came by way of Paris. 

You 're going ? Well, old man, good night. 

Yes, we 're a migratory band ; 
One grasps almost a welcoming hand 
To bid farewell; we 're all in motion. 
Sometimes we miss the native land 
And wonder what we left it for; 
But still we colonists have more 
Than all they have beyond the ocean, 
They have n't the Ambassador. 

Berlin, 1898. 



TO MRS. M. B. W. 

(With a volume of poems,) 

ONE who has dared for love to press the keys 
That open all the throats of English song, 
And play subdued his simple melodies 

With stops and pedals dear to all the throng 
Of master minstrels down from Caedmon's time. 
On pipes that answered to quaint Chaucer's 
hand, 
And shook with Milton's trumpet notes sublime. 
Or fluted soft at Shelley's sweet command, — 
Cannot call forth the melodies he would 
But sends, with joy, the score of one who could. 



63 



TO V. 

A LITTLE woman's voice 
And a little woman's smile 
Can make my world rejoice, 
And life worth the while. 

She may not clearly see 

What my patient logic shows; 

But what the truth must be 
The little woman knows. 

She is true, and truth belies, 

For her ways of thought are queer, 
She betrays it in her eyes. 

She reveals it with a tear. 

Her wish but half expressed 

Becomes a stern command; 

And my world of care can rest 

In the little woman's hand. 
64 



TO MRS. J. B. J. 

(With a hasket of mandarine oranges from the Riviera. J 

DIPLOMATS in China 
Deal with Mandarins, 
Write them Manifestos 
Behead them for their sins. 

Diplomats in Europe 

Quarter them on dishes 
And yellow-coated Mandarines 

Bring our New-Year wishes. 



65 



CHRISTMAS ON THE RIVIERA 

THE wildest storm of northern night 
Can brighten with the inner light; 
The surface false, the heart is true; 
Beside these placid depths of blue 
Have we a discontent as deep ? 
No other's eye can ever see 
The hidden Calendars we keep. 
What Christmas means to you and me 
Depends on your heart and on mine, 
Lies underneath the outward sign, 
Lies deeper than the forms of mirth 
That each sad Christian land on Earth 
Assumes to celebrate Christ's birth. 
Peace was the promise; the command: 
They heard it first in that far land 
Whose border sands reach down to meet 
These self-same waves here at our feet. 

66 



Christmas on the Riviera 67 

How much of promised peace we know 
Where'er our wandering course is run, 
Is still the same in Northern Snow, 
Or Southern Sun. 

Whether the bells of homeland fling 
Their sterner tones from ice-bound towers 
Or Christmas finds us with the flowers, 
With palm and fruited orange tree. 
Where softer chimes and carols ring 
From Campaniles of Italy. 



A WAYSIDE CROSS 

THE moving pictures of my flight 
Through planted fields and orchards white 
With flower, past tower and sleepy town, 
All vanished, save a cross that stood 
Beside the way, close to the wood, 
Below a hill whose slope of brown 
Warmed with the first green of the vine; 
And there a woman bowing down 

Before a shrine. 

On paven streets I hear the roar 
Again, move in the crowd once more; 
But now when burdens seem to be 
Too hard, those hillsides reappear, — 
That peasant form ; and even here. 
Rising at every turn for me 
Out of the pain and wrong and loss. 
Of these sad city stones, I see 

A wayside cross. 

68 



HYMN 

(Written for the dedication of the Scott Memorial, IV esley an 
University, J 

THROUGH Nature's realm, o'er sea and land, 
We own a force divine; 
The working of an unseen hand, 
A Master's wise design. 

All-knowing Spirit, in whose sight 

Our mysteries are plain, 
Hasten the march of Truth ; give light 

Where Science gropes in vain. 

Reveal thy plan, inspire our quest, 

Lead on where we explore. 
Fresh wonders yet make manifest 

From out thy secret store. 
69 



70 Songs after Work 

We sound the depths, we search the way. 

And probe for hidden cause; 
In human boldness we essay 

To formulate thy laws. 

Old thought to new may yield its place, 

Our systems rise and fall; 
Strengthen the Faith that still can trace 

Unchanging Love through all. 



IDEALS 

A COMPASS needle seldom marks the north: 
The guiding point by which our seamen 
steer 
Lies east or west, swings daily back and forth, 
Varies with climes, and alters year by year. 

But the true pole, unchanging, shows the way: 
To note the compass error on the chart, 

To find the deviation day by day; 

That brings the ship home! thai 's the sailor's 
art. 

To shape the course, to follow the ideal. 
But constantly compare and test the rate 

By which it varies from the true and real. 
Herein our seamanship is proven great. 



71 



THE LAST WORD 

WHAT shall the last word be to-night 
When I rush away ? 
When the minutes speed with such a flight 
To make the coming days more bright, 
What can I say ? 

Of all the tend'rest names, what name 

Shall I call her then ? 
When 1 turn back on the path I came 
What gift can 1 leave that shall be the same 

When I come again ? 

What can I ask as her gift to me ? 

Think what I can! 
A charm to make me utterly 
Strive in the quest o'er land and sea, — 

A talisman ? 

72 



The Last Word 73 

Now, dearest heart, the night is here; 

I go away! 
And Love is the talisman, my dear, 
And Love is all the gift I bring, 
And Love is the simple only thing 

That I can say. 



BALLADE OF THE SHIP 

O ships of yesterday, come back 
Just for a single voyage, and see 
The sooty funnel and smoky track 

Of a modern liner and you '11 agree 
How graceless a barque may grow to be. 

T is the same on shore with the iron rails; 
The world took things more leisurely 
Before the ships had lost their sails. 

There are masts of steel and an iron stack 

And a whistle that echoes mournfully! 
Coal is king, and his flag is black; 

He has the world in his mastery. 
The galleons of old had souls and were free; 

Those were the days of mariners' tales, 
When the bending mast bore the heart of a tree, 

Before the ships had lost their sails. 

74 



Ballade of the Ship 75 

Envoi 

Old harbor hulks, ride peacefully. 

You were proud in your day: you weathered 
your gales. 
T was a slower time on land and sea 

Before the ships had lost their sails. 



OBERLAND 

WHERE gardens parch 
And pavements glow 
I '11 dream of you, 
Eternal Snow. 

Lost in the maze 

Of things and men, 
Your peaks shall point 

The way again. 

Ever within me. 

Cool, serene, 
I '11 keep a bit 

Of Alpine green. 

Out of the dust 

I '11 climb up there 

And drink anew 

The fragrant air, 
76 



Oberland 77 



And rest the tired eye 

And hand 
There in my heights, 

My '* oberland." 



AFTER-THOUGHTS 

THE printer's forms were scarcely dressed, 
The cylinders had hardly pressed 
My modest black on waiting white, 
When scores of things so good and bright 
That should have been included there. 
Wise rhymes on love, and life, and men, 
Assailed my all too halting pen. 
Ah, those were thoughts so strong and great 
Lost to the world! They came too late. 
Our inspirations sometimes come 
Post-scriptum, — when the work is done. 



78 



SEPTEMBER 8TH 

KIND friends that gather on this natal day 
To taste the blessedness of giving, 
I 'm unprepared, without a word to say 
Expressive of the joy of living. 

These unexpected gifts you bring 

Call forth my most impromptu thanks; 

The modest Muse can scarcely sing, 
The grateful tears o'erflow their banks. 

Oh, fairest wife! oh, family ties! 

Oh, welcome unexpected guests! 
Above the common saw I rise 

That he who giveth most is blest. 
Tls sweet to give, but I believe 
'T is sometimes sweeter to receive. 



79 



REISELUST 

OVER the waves for a run! 
Through the Straits, beyond the storm, 
To another sea that is mild and warm, 
And a land that invites the sun. 

It's the dream of a moment's rest 

In the rush of a burdened day; 

It 's a longing for things that are far away, 
To be out as of old on a quest. 

As Vikings we loved to roam ; 

Or some ancestor folded his tent 

Far back in the dusky Orient, 
In search of another home. 

You remember the flood of light ? 

(That journey long ago) 

The odor of blossoms, after the snow. 
The waking from Northern night ? 

80 



Reiselust 8i 

As we rolled in our sluggish train 
Toward those cities we loved and knew 
From our dreams and books, beneath that blue, 

Through the green of the Lombard plain ? 

And still, if we lived our day 

In that soft Italian air. 

Instead of facing a world of care 
In our resolute Northern way, 

If the struggle were less intense. 

If work were a thing of the past; 

The hold on life, the love, would it last, 
Down there in the sunny indolence? 

Now all this wishing for Rome, 
This longing to take your hand 
And lead you off to a summer land 

From this warmest nest of a home, 

Came tempting me, I fear. 
As I gazed over roof and wall, 
And caught a glimpse at the end of it all 

Of a steamer leaving her pier. 



82 Songs after Work 

The city surrounded me; 

Below was the human stream; 
But I heard the wash of the sea, 

And I walked the deck in my dream. 



FEW LINES FROM A HARD-WORKIN* 
MAN TO HIS DEAR OLD UN ON 
HER BIRTHDAY 

GOD bless the day you took to livin' I 
I aint no specialist on givin', 
But here 's a little somethin' new, 
A little bit o' thing like you. 
And if the presents come in slow, 
I love yer just as much, yer know. 
When luck is down or luck is up 
You Ve got yer man, you 've got yer pup, 
An now 1 wish yer 'd take this cup. 



83 



TO MRS. L A. T. 

THE ocean is so wide! 
But sometimes stranger ships 
Shape the same course, and love to sight 

by chance 
Each other on the blue expanse, 
A distant mast-head or a light, 
And after leagues of ocean ride 
At anchor safely side by side. 

Toward harbors where we once have met 
We Ve many a happy course to run. 
Soon may our ready sails be set 
For latitudes of Southern Sun, 
For some life-teeming, favored isle, 
Warm in the flood of tropic air. 
Anchored, we 'II forget the while 
Our northern cold, our northern care. 
84 



AT THE FLORIST'S 

POOR roses, passive things of trade! 
There is a world you never knew; 
June gardens, where a rose is paid 

For growing, by the rain and dew, 
The free south wind and open sun. 
Living a life 't would gladly give 
In adoration to the one 
Herself a rose, who lets it live. 

Sad city children bound and sold, 
Told off in dozens, packed and pressed. 

You '11 see what tenderness can hold 
An orphan rose upon its breast. 

Go, hurrying through the frozen street 
Without a clue, bearing no name. 

Out of the winter night, and greet 

One who shall marvel whence you came. 

85 



86 Songs after Work 

Your rare unfolding shall betray 
No useless secrets; she shall take 

No thought for all you've heard me say; 
She *11 love you just — for Rose's sake. 



TO ELIZABETH 

MAY heaven give you such a bright Nev^ Year 
The happy past, in contrast, will seem dark. 
You 're sure to make it merry, never fear. 
One might as v^ell wish music to the lark, 
Or to the coward fear, 
Or joy to love, to mournful eyes a tear, 
T were such a useless wish — 
As light to stars, or water to the fish. 
Laugh on, be just the same ! 
You 've won a name. 
Keep up the play; 
You cannot fight against your fame, 
You must be gav. 

And when the Sphinx his silence breaks 
And Cheops wakens from his sleep. 
Then, you may weep. 



87 



TO MISS R. G. 

ACCEPT a bit of scrapbook rhyme, 
A brief Madeira souvenir, 
Reminder of a sunny clime 
And how we spent a winter here. 

Doubtless we '11 all remember well 
Two tables where we oftenest met : 

The table of the new hotel, 
That other of the old roulette. 

These places mingle in my song: 

The table of the daily meal. 
The beating of the brazen gong. 

The turning of the numbered wheel. 

They both were there to make us pay. 
They both were there to help us gain, 

The one meant work, the other play. 
At both our efforts were in vain. 

88 



To Miss R. G. 89 

At one we played our pounds for meat 
And sometimes only won a bone. 

I hope at both you found a treat 
And lost no pounds but gained a stone. 

What number next ? ah, who can tell? 

I wish you all the '' pleins," my dear, 
Whether 't is in a new hotel 

Or wicked old " Vigia/' 



TO H. M. B. 

(A photographic Comrade. J 

MAY all the hope, and all the future, bright 
As fancy pictures it upon a plate 
Within the heart, deep hidden from the light, 
Develop 'neath the kindly hand of fate; 
In Time's own best solution laid to wait 
Till the full strength and richness shall appear, 

And all the dream of old is animate 
With warmth and color, fixed, unblemished, 
clear. 



go 



TO MRS. VON U. 

IN that dear distant homeland 
Beyond the stretch of sea, 
In seventy odd millions 

Of people ''great and free/' 

Sometimes we fail to find the ones 

That Providence intends 
Should live into our lives a bit 

And grow to be our friends. 

We meet, perhaps, as ''colonists'* 

In "monarchies effete,'' 
And that 's the very thing that makes 

A life of exile sweet. 



91 



ON PINCIAN HILL 

THE Roman world is gay and bright 
On Garden Hill to-day, — 
A world of music, beauty, light, 
Roses and fountain spray. 

A dreamy look of luxury fills 
The eyes of young and fair; 

Mascagni's 'Mntermezzo'' thrills 
Upon the perfumed air. 

Within the charmed range of sound 
The crowd move slowly by; 

In golden livery grouped around, 
Proud equipages vie. 

But in th' Eternal City who 

Can rest contented long 

With things that savor of the new ? 

The charm of age is strong. 
92 



On Pincian Hill 93 

An ancient spell from out the past 

Our spirits seems to hold 
In sympathy with what could last, 

In love for what is old. 

Away from all this modern show 

We turn with eager eyes 
To where, the terraced hill below, 

Our Rome, the classic, lies; 

To ground that heathen emperors 

And holy men have trod ; 
To temples reared for Jupiter, 

And churches built to God. 

We try to find the Pantheon 

Amidst the gilded domes; 
The inward vision dwells upon 

The distant Catacombs. 

We see the Colosseum stand 
Still strong against the flood 



94 Songs after Work 

Of stormy centuries, altar grand, 
Hallowed, by martyrs' blood. 



O sacred ruin, planned to see 

Such blood for pleasure spent. 
What heroes dared to make of thee 

A Christian monument! 

Have we a faith as strong and sure 
'Gainst sword and beast and flame ? 

Could we their sufferings endure ? 
And glory in His name ? 

Have we their strength to stand our ground 

I '11 question better still) 
Amidst the life that throngs around 

Here on the Pincian Hill ? 

For Faith, of old by tortures tried, 

Needs now another test: 
The truth for which our fathers died 

We prove by living best. 



On Pincian Hill 95 

Be it an open fight with vice, 

Or self to overcome, 
Each day may have its sacrifice, 

Each life its martyrdom. 

Rome, 1895. 



TO OUR VIRGINIA 

(From all the Pets.) 

DEAR Mistress, our master summons us 
To join him telling the love that grows 
Through all the year, then overflows 
At Christmas time. 
We send his rhyme 
To one who always knows our needs, 
The meaning of each look and motion, 
Who reads our simple thought, and heeds 
Our dumb devotion. 

The part we play in the household scheme 

Is not to amuse or ornament; 

Out of wild Nature we were sent 

To dearest you, 

To show how true 

96 



To Our Virginia 97 

A heart can beat beneath a wing, 

Be it a parrot, finch, or starling. 

We know the false from the genuine thing, 

Like you, our Darling. 

We know our friends upon a glance; 
Our enemies cannot conceal 
Their scorn for animals, they feel 
That they 're above us. 
But you just love us. 
Our broken words you understand. 
We call to you the whole day long, 
We look for all to your sweet hand 
And thank in ecstasies of song. 



ALMA MATER 

WE salute thy black and red 
Alma Mater, that has led 
Us to cheers! 
We returning ones would toast 
To the beauty thou canst boast 
With thy years. 

Time has wrought but little change 
In the world we thought so strange 

And so vast, 
As we left these doors of thine, 
Taking places in the line, 

As it passed. 

We are modern, v/e believe; 
Sometimes failing to achieve 
In our haste. 

98 



Alma Mater 99 

Is the hurry but in vain ? 
Is there, for the greater gain, 
Less of waste ? 

Eagerly new moulds are planned, 
While the casting in its sand 

Still is hot; 
Scarcely dry from off the press 
The printed page is valueless, 

The book forgot. 

News of yesterday is trite, 
And invention over night 

Grows routine. 
In the wire's relentless coil 
Man must speak, and move, and toil, 

A machine! 

Roofs are growing to the sky. 
And the light, sometimes, on high 

Fails to reach 
To the pavemenfs ceaseless flow; 
Do we practice down below 

What we preach ? 



loo Songs after Work 

Cautious wealth is waxing bold ; 
Aristocracy of Gold 

Grows apace. 
Restless though with gain replete 
'Mid the tumult of the street 

Still we race. 

But the way it all is earned, 
Wisest Mother, as we learned 

At thy knee. 
Ultimately is the test; 
Honest labor proves the best 

Pedigree. 

To this same surf-beaten shore 
Whither once the frail ships bore 

Our kith and kin. 
Comes the flood from far and wide, 
The exotic human tide 

Surging in. 

Silently each alien race 
Builds its new abiding place, 
And we fear 



Alma Mater loi 

Lest from hallowed paths we stray, 
And traditions fall away 
That were dear. 

What enlightenment must pass 
To that undeveloped mass 

If we 11 hold 
To the way o'er which we came, 
If we '11 keep the nation's name 

As of old! 

Pilgrim conscience e'er renewed, 
Kindled in the multitude 

By the few ; 
Lest, where chains no longer bind 
Seeking liberty, they find 

License, too: 

Lest they blast our land at length ! 

Never greater need than now. 

Alma Mater, such as thou. 
Be our strength! 



I02 Songs after Work 

Bravest Mother! that dost send 
Us thy children to the end 

Of the Earth, 
As thy blood is in our veins, 
Uneffaced the mark remains 

Of our birth. 

Thou hast led our minds to thought; 
In thy wisdom, thou hast taught 

Of the arts; 
But with all the bookish wealth, 
Thou wast nurturing the health 

Of our hearts. 

Have we conquered in thy name, 
Proud, thine ivy, we could claim 

For a wreath. 
If hard pressed we stood alone. 
We could see th' enduring stone 

Underneath. 

In the struggle and the strife. 
Where the problems for a life 
All were new, 



Alma Mater 103 



Alma Mater, thou hast stood 
As our standard of the Good 
And the True I 



ULTIMA THULE 

THERE is an island thou hast never seen, 
And yet to me that spot of vivid green 
Rising out of the blue has grown to be 
Familiar land upon an unknov^n sea, 
All ships sail past it on the uncharted deep 
Of my dream ocean, Island of my Sleep ! 
Its sheets are silent and the moss-grown wall 
Sends back the echo of our passing call. 



104 



SYMPATHY 

PAIN stands at the bed 
Plying his cruel art; 
Love presses his head 

Close to the pillow, his part 
To wait if at length 

By happy chance it fall 
To him, in his strength. 
To suffer it all. 



105 



OUR JACKO 

FROM Africa he said he came, 
And '*Jacko" was the parrot name 
He used to call. 
He asked our *' Marquis " for his paw, 
And laughed when " Marquis" bit his claw. 
He named us all. 

He talked so much, our poor old bird. 
But never said an unkind word 

The whole day long. 
Whatever theme he preached about. 
To him his sentences, no doubt, 

Were but a song. 

If now and then he used a phrase 
That savored of less prosperous days. 
And strangers thought him 

io6 



Our Jacko 107 

A linguist scarce to be admired ; 
Of course 't was something he 'd acquired 
Before we bought him. 

He took his apple from my hand; 
Still and attentive he would stand 

To hear me speak. 
I loved him, played with him, the while 
I understood his crafty smile, 

And feared his beak. 

Only one finger touched his head. 

One hand could stroke that beauteous red 

And velvet gray; 
A little hand so soft and true 
That if it held a sceptre too, 

And had its way 

O'er all the world as over me, 

T would set imprisoned nature free. 

Break cage and chain. 
That little hand so sweet and brave 
Would give its very self to save 

Dumb things from pain. 



io8 Songs after Work 

If we could only read aright, 

If we could know a friend at sight 

As *'Jacko'' knew, 
We'd miss the half-love of a part 
And hold with an undoubting heart 

The sure few. 

Sweet bird-soul, gone again to share 
la the new birth of something rare 

And dear to man! 
He came from forest depths to bring 
Us Nature's joy, just following 

His Maker's plan. 

*' But brutes," you say ? Well then they taught 
Us much we had to learn, they brought 

Us near their kind. 
But surely He who made them knows 
A difference 'twixt brutes— and those 

By love refined. 



A FRAGMENT 

WERE I the Sun I 'd burn a path of blue 
Down through the winter fog, and make 
Earth bright 
Just over certain places where I knew 
Of hearts that need, and long for, warmth and 
light. 

For all that they deserve the common crowd 
Could go their chilly way 'neath mist and cloud, 
But tender souls and flowers, every one 
That needed me, I 'd help, were I the Sun. 



109 



TO ADDIE 

(^'- Out of the mouths oft ah es^ J 

THE Father of worlds took thought 
For his children's dwelling place: 
He fashioned the Earth and wrought 
The hills for a godlike race. 

Deep in the ocean's ooze 

The struggle and growth began ; 
Of lives that must blend and fuse 

Into the image of man. 

Long was the way we came 

And deep the mystery; 
We search for his sign and name 

And doubt where we cannot see. 

But answer comes to the quest 
In the fear and travail of birth 

And the tiny life on your breast 

Brought something of God to Earth. 



MY NEIGHBOR 

MY windows look to the East and yours to 
the West; 
My sun is always rising, — yours sinking to rest: 
Do you dread the morning chill, and think the 

world awry, 
My afternoon is blank and I long for a western 
sky. 



Ill 



TO MOTHER 

WHEN the leaves were falling 
Two score years ago 
Mother's hair was turning gray 
Boy had much to grow. 

Mother knew life's burden, 

Boy had still to see 
All beyond the garden plot, 

All there was to be. 

Now the boy is gray, too, 

Mother's grown white; 
Now two loving women 

Two far homes unite. 

Boy that left the hearthstone. 
Boy that burned to roam, 

Learned the worth of mother, 
Found the joy of home. 

112 



TO V. 

THESE roses for our anniversary! 
No, not in honor of the holy words 
That marked and sealed the pledges of full faith, 
Drew us whose lives had been wide worlds apart 
Together, even, for the rest of time; 
Nor even of the hour that love spoke out 
And told the trouble raging in his heart, 
But the auspicious day, without whose part 
Those other golden ones could not have been, 
The end of years when our two paths first crossed, 
When came the joy of seeing, knowing you. 
If the still sentinel had thought before 
To recognize a passer on the plain 
As the long waited one for whom the bridge 
Was lowered and the castle halls prepared 
There was no mystic sign, the watchword failed. 
Until you came. 
How could he know ? and yet 
It all was clear the day we met. 
8 113 



THE CRUSADE 

(Frofn the German of Leitner. Set to music by Schubert, J 

A MONK in lonely convent cell 
Beside his window stands; 
Gay knights ride by adown the green, 
Bound for the Orient lands. 

They sing of holy conquest, 
Right earnest and right brave; 

The banners of the Holy Cross 
Above their bright shields wave. 

Down to the surging sea they ride; 

A ship waits in the bay. 
Then o'er her bright, green sea-path 

Floats like a swan away. 

The monk, beside his window still. 

Shouts after them : '' Fight well, 
114 



The Crusade 115 

Like ye, a pilgrim too am I, 
Though I stay behind in my cell. 

''Life's journey through the treacherous wave 

And o'er the desert sand, — 
Ay, it is truly a crusade 

Into the Holy Land." 



IN CASTLE LAND 

But perhaps thou art one of those who think the days of 
romance gone forever. Believe it not ! Thou art not less a 
woman, because thou dost not sit aloft in a tower, with a 
tassel-gentle on thy wrist. Thou art not less a man, because 
thou wearest no hauberk, nor mail-sark, and goest not on horse- 
back after adventures. Every one has a romance in his own 
heart. — Hyperion. 

WITHIN yon ivied tower on the hill 
A lady lived, long centuries ago, 
Loved by a knight whose castle wall stands still, 
A gray old ruin, in the vale below. 

I 'd envy him his old romantic ways, — 
Those tilts and tournaments before her eyes 

Whose sweet, hard-won approval, gracious 
praise. 
Was best of all he strove for, — but he lies 

Ii6 



In Castle Land 117 

(So runs the sad old tale) 'neath Syria's sand. 

He did the knightly duty of his time 
With Barbarossa in the Holy Land; 

She waited for him here beside the Rhine. 



THE ABANDONED FARM 

''HAUDOM*' 

THE seeding time brought sun and rain 
But hope of harvest wealth was dead ; 
The meadow grass grew tali in vain, 
The homestead lay untenanted. 

But now the Earth again must yield. 

Time in its sure circle brings 
The plough to the long fallow fields; 

New life from out the ruin springs. 

Forerunners all where ere you be 
That fled from all your train of ills 

To seek the prairie or the sea, 
We 're heirs to these New England hills. 

it8 



The Abandoned Farm 119 

We claim your pastures from the weed, 

We cherish every vine and tree, 
We make amends for wasted seed 

And Axe's prodigality. 

From out the life of haste and heat 

We seek your hills where time is slow, 

With all our city gain replete 

Hungry to watch the forest grow. 



OUTRE MER 

TUNE : *' Son of a Gambolier ^' 
("Sung hy the European Wesleyan Alumni,) 

COME every good Alumnus 
And do the same as we; 
Just pack your little steamer-trunk 

And sail across the sea; 
Your college French and German 

You '11 have a chance to try, 
And you '11 get a hearty welcome 
From the Prussian Polizei. 

Chorus: 

We 're having a-having a-having a-having a- 

Having a splendid time; 
We 're taking in the gal'ries 

And the Castles on the Rhine; 
We 're seeing the things you read about, 

120 



Outre Mer 121 

And drinking the famous wine, 
We are worthy sons of Wesleyan 
A travelling for a time. 

Each educated man must see 

These ''foreigners '' at home; 
Don't judge from Castle Garden ^ 

The inhabitants of Rome; 
When you talk with Vergil's daughters 

And Livy's sons, you '11 find 
They speak a different lingua 

From the stuff you had to grind. 

And if there 's something still to learn 

Outside of Wesleyan's doors. 
You 're pretty sure to learn it 

On these European shores; 
Come drink of the Pierian Spring, 

You '11 find it running clear, 
For it loses in the bottling 

Like Export Lager Beer. 



CAMPUS SONG 

MELODY : ''Annie of the Vale.»» 

IN moonlight reposing, its charms all disclosing, 
Our college home is shining on the hill; 
To-night we are singing, our voices are ringing. 
Are ringing o'er the campus white and still. 

Chorus : 

Come, come sing with a will. 

Sing Wesleyana with a cheer! 
While others are sleeping, let us still be keeping 

A watch of song o'er Alma Mater dear. 

These old walls resounding, in charms are 
abounding. 

Each stairway has a story it can tell. 
But more than old halls, or ivy-clad walls, 

Our college songs possess a magic spell. 

122 



Campus Song 123 

Our songs are like showers upon the dry 
flowers, 
They cool us from the toiling of the brain; 
And when full of knowledge we Ve left the 

old college, 
. We *11 sing those songs to bring us back again. 



''MY GERMAN BONNIE" 

Tune: ^^ My Bonnie J* 

MEIN Schatzlein ist jenseits des Wassers, 
Mein Liebling ist feme von hier ; 
Mein Schatzlein ist jenseits des Wassers, 
Oh bringet mein Schatzlein zu mir. 

chorus: 

Bringet, bringet, 

Bringet mein Schatzlein zu mir, zu mir; 
Bringet, bringet, 

Oh bringet mein Schatzlein zu mir. 

Heut Nacht als ich lag auf dem Kissen; 

Heut Nacht mir traumte so schwer: 

Heut Nacht als ich lag auf dem Kissen, 

Mir traumte mein Schatz sei nicht mehr. 
124 



'*My German Bonnie" 125 

Oh blaset Ihr Winde von Westland, 

Ich hore EuY Brausen so gern ; 
Ihr bringt ja zuruck nach der Heimath 

Den Schatz mir aus weitester Fern. 



INVENTORY 

STILL another mile-stone passed 
Scarcely further than the last 
That I see; 
Barely half th* allotted length! 
(If by reason still of strength, 
That may be.) 

With a new year's hopeful dawn, 
When the balance-sheet is drawn, 

And all told. 
When we note the gain and loss 
And we separate the dross 

From the Gold, 

You '11 admit that your account 
Closes with a vast amount 

To the good. 
Thankful solvency to know 
One may have, and still may owe 

As one should. 

J26 



Inventory 127 

He who keeps the books would write; — 
*' Eyes seeing much and full of light; 

*' Face to kiss; 
*' Energy to shame a man; 
''Restless brain, alert to plan 

''What others miss ; 

'Two incredibly small feet, 
''And a form of pure, petite, 

" Loveliness; 
" Form that pleads and yet commands; 
"And the daintiest of hands 

" To caress; 

"Genuine sympathetic heart, 
" More than ready for its part 

" Toward a friend; 
" Giving fully to the few 
" Of its best, and being true 

"To the end." 

If things seem not all so fair, 
If there *s oft a load of care 
To endure; 



128 Songs after Work 

Joy sometimes seems dying out, 
And weakness paves the way to doubt. 
Love is sure ! 

Love can stand a mighty strain, 
Can be wronged and bear the pain 

Of rebuff. 
For the Love that was shall be, 
And its first reality 

Is enough ! 



SEPTUAGENARY 

(To Mrs, L. A. TJ 

OUR old-time wish for length of days, 
Renewed, we bring 
To one whose pride of years betrays 
No faltering. 

Whose strength, unyielding, holds off age 

With steady hand; 
Hard on another journey's stage, — 

Life's ^'Overland." 

With the long toil of slow ascent 

We make our years. 

Ever toward the summits bent, 

Like mountaineers. 

129 



130 Songs after Work 

After a climb through wooded steeps, 

What joy to gain 
An open table-rock that keeps 

Watch o*er the plain! 

Beneath, the checkered fields are spread, 

White lanes between; 
The river weaves a glistening thread 

On cloth of green. 

The farmer like a pigmy seems 

Behind his plow; 
The country to a land of dreams 

Is blended now. 

And so to-day a turn unfolds 

The past to view; 
Beyond, a towering future holds 

The ever new. 

The heat and dust are left below; 

The clamors cease! 
O'er quiet altitudes the snow 

Crowns perfect peace. 



Septuagenary 131 

Some steps 't were Heaven to retrace I 

Some pain and stress 
Remembered at this halting place! 

Some weariness! 

A little doubt when still we see 

The heights above; 
But more of trust, since there could be 

So much of love. 



AT BEECHWOOD 

THE same old latch-string 's at another door, 
Each friend of old some treasures new 
will find; 
New vistas, green discoveries in store 
For all who leave the pavements far behind. 

A country-welcome here the wood thrush calls, 
The fragrant grass spreads an inviting bed, 

Down from the beech a soothing shadow falls 
Where rest can lure a city-wearied head. 



132 



EX LIBRIS OF F. A. V. 

WHILE patient Nature, brooding in content 
O'er vast reserves of silence, shapes the 
plan 
Of work for Aeons of Accomplishment, 

What restlessness attends th' affairs of Man! 
Yet even here, hard on the noisy mart. 

Sacred the silence of the shelves shall be 

To silence-garnered thoughts, a v/orld apart, 

Like the unbounded stretches of the sea. 



133 



TO J. A. S. ON HIS TIETH BIRTHDAY 

ANOTHER year! Time marks them fast 
For these life stages where 'tis sweet to be 
Between the bravos of the past 
And beckonings of opportunity. 

Work on with pride of friends for pay! 

Tread paths of happiness with love as guide! 
The strength of knotted live oaks on the way, 

Their changeless green for wreath at Eventide. 

Stay young in heart, and that 's the way 
Your own prophetic symbols to fulfil 

The secret of Y. M. C. A.— 
Youth May Continue Always if we will. 



134 



OUR CHIRURGUS 

A, B, D, 

MAY Yuletide's gold have no alloy! 
Like Antony of old, we pray, 
Lend us your ears to treat — with joy 
On Christmas day! 

Forget membrana tympani, 
Squamosal and petrosal bone; 

The saccus lacrymalis fee, 
The thousand dollar groan! 

Find in this stocking's depths the cheer, 
Good Sir Eustachio, we send: 

Not even with the inner ear 
Does '* friendship end." 



135 



TO V 

THUMBS and fingers, ears and feet, 
All , 
Small 
And sweet! 

Little people each of you, 

Queer, 

Dear, 

And true! 

In a world that 's mine alone. 

Mites, 

Quite 

My own ! 

Thumbs I'm daily growing under; 

Touch 

Such 

A wonder! 

136 



To V 137 



Ears to which alone belong 
The unwrit word, 
Scarce heard, 
My undersong. 

Feet, at which I lay my pelf, 
Gain, 
My pain 
And myself. 

Little world you make my life, 

You all, 

I call, 

^' My Wife!" 



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